


I Should Have Died With Him

by azulaahai



Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Angst, Dalinar is struggling, F/M, Gavilar's death, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, I am mostly here to make ByTheLordRuler cry (in a friendly way) lmao, Survivor Guilt, a n g s t, angst as far as the eyes can see, but with a hopeful ending, it is late I am tired idk what happened, this is rather pretentious and melodramatic but hepp hepp here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 03:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14782583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azulaahai/pseuds/azulaahai
Summary: After the assassination of his brother, Dalinar loses himself in his grief and guilt. He is, however, not the only one mourning.





	I Should Have Died With Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ByTheLordRuler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByTheLordRuler/gifts).



> This is angsty, melodramatic stuff! You've been warned.
> 
>  
> 
> Title and opening quote from "A Dance With Dragons" by George R. R. Martin.

_“I should have been with him. Where was I? I should have died with him.”_

 

* * *

 

He had failed one.

 

Dalinar Kholin had not known guilt before that day, not in its true sense; he had not known sadness, had not known grief. Gavilar had been the brother he loved and feared, admired and envied.

 

And Dalinar had spent his brother’s last hours face down at a table, drunk out of his mind, his Blade unsummoned.

 

Sadeas had been there when he had not. So many, so many people, had been there before him - had done things he hadn’t - so many could at least say they tried to save the king.

 

Not Dalinar.

 

He had slept away his chance at honor, drunk away his opportunity to at least give his life for his brother, for his kingdom.

 

And so here he was, alive when his brother was not, his survival only another source of shame.

 

* * *

 

The grief had struck hard and true, nearly overwhelming him. Yet Dalinar might have been able to bear it - should have been able to bear it - he was the Blackthorn after all, and no stranger to pain - had it not been for the guilt that added fuel to the fire.

 

It was the _guilt_ that crippled him, _guilt_ that drove him to insanity, _guilt_ that sent him over the edge.

 

His first reaction, always so dangerously close to him, was anger. A rage burning so white and hot he scared even some part of himself. His roars had sent survants running, and had resulted in an entire room being destroyed, Dalinar flipping tables and breaking chairs, bellowing from the top of his lungs, cursing the Parshendi in any and all languages he knew.

 

It had gone on for hours.

 

Then, as the rage slowly seeped out of him, like water leaving a hole-filled cauldron, apathy had taken it’s place.

 

He was numb, void of emotion.

 

Dalinar sat staring into a wall, unmoving, unthinking, unfeeling.

 

And waited for time to pass, for it to close the chasm within him.

 

* * *

 

It did, time - pass. Painfully slowly, a day went by, and another. Servants tiptoed around him, careful not to envoke the infamous temper of the Blackthorn. They left him food - he barely ate. They hesitantly asked if there was anything they could do - he did not answer. They told him reports of his sons’ health - he did not react.

 

He drank, though. Far too much.

 

Sadeas came by, his voice dripping with  desperation. He wanted help.

 

“You can not keep living like this”, Torol said in a low voice.

 

Dalinar did not reply.

 

For a heartbeat, he thought he could hear condemnation in Sadeas’ voice. _He blames you, too. He blames you for Gavilar._

 

Dalinar felt nothing.

 

Others came. Highprinces, brightlords. To offer condolences, or vows of vengeance, or assurances of their allegiance. Dalinar attempted to refuse to see them, but they kept coming, like chasmfiends stomping his hopes for solitude to death. Had he been his old self, he’d have thrown them out by force, but now he sat there, jaw clenched, and listened to their empty words, wondering if they, as well, knew he had let his brother die.

 

If they thought as low of him as he thought of himself.

 

* * *

 

A highstorm came and went - he was led to a shelter like an elderly grandfather, but he did not speak up or protest. The storm raging did little to scare him out of his dormancy. Dalinar stared at the walls of the stormshelter just like he did the walls in his chambers, and on a few occassions he almost, almost thought the storm was calling his name, roaring it, screaming traitor at him.

 

* * *

 

On the fourth day, Jasnah came to see him.

 

Dalinar sat with his back to the door, gruffing at the intrusion of his chambers, sure that whoever had entered the room was just another brightlord coming to see if it was true, what they said, that the Blackthorn had gone truly mad at last.

 

“Uncle”, a hoarse voice said then. He knew that voice.

 

He turned his head, surveying Jasnah hesitating in the doorway.

 

His niece’s hair hung unruly, and her violet eyes were swollen, tired - it was evident she’d been crying. Something that one might almost mistake for a feeling clawed at his chest at the thought of Jasnah, normally so fierce and put-together, weeping.

 

He tried not to linger at the thought, the pain for a moment returning to him with full force. He breathed in and out, in and out, longing for that irresponsible numbness in which he was no one and worth nothing.

 

“Uncle”, Jasnah said again, and Dalinar realised he hadn’t responded. He had not spoken a word in days.

 

“Uncle, we need you.” The words were almost pleading, so unlike anything Jasnah would normally say, and again those claws scraped his chest.

 

His niece kept speaking when he remained silent. “Things are … strange. Too much. I … mother needs you. Elhokar …” She cut herself off, her normally so eloquent speech now choppy, jerkily, as if the words spilled out of her mouth by accident. “Elhokar needs you. We all …” A deep breath from her. “We all need you.”

 

Dalinar gripped the armrests of the chair so tightly his knuckles whitened.

 

“Uncle? Are you listening?”

 

He said nothing.

 

He felt nothing.

 

He was nothing.

 

Dalinar heard Jasnah take a deep breath again behind him. He waited for the words to come, for the judgement to roll off Jasnah’s sharp tongue. _I blame you. I hate you. You let father die. What good is a thorn if it’s not anywhere near the flower? You left him. You abandoned him. I hate you._

 

But no words came.

 

It took Dalinar a moment to realise Jasnah had left the room.

 

* * *

 

And so, after seven days, she came to him.

Dalinar knew she would. Had awaited it - dreaded it.

 

No judgement was as difficult for Dalinar to handle as that of Navani Kholin.

 

How could he look her in the eyes, after what he’d done, or rather failed to do?

 

She did not linger on the threshold like her daughter had done, stepping into the room with her natural grace. Just by the sound of her steps, the smell of her soap, Dalinar knew it was her, and something quite like fear spread through him, as if he was a child about to be lectured.

 

She pulled up a chair, taking a seat opposite him. Dalinar did not, could not look at her, staring at the floor, the disappointment radiating from her too much for him to handle.

 

“Dalinar.” His name on her tongue. He clenched his jaw.

 

“Dalinar.” Almost a challenge in her voice.

 

He looked up then.

 

Violet eyes, lighter than her daughter’s, appearing almost translucent in the dim light of the spheres, met his. Dalinar swallowed.

 

But no matter how he delved into those eyes, he could find no accusation in them. No whisper of a sign she blamed Dalinar for what had happened.

 

He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

 

“We are all going through much right now.” Navani emphasized every word, again as if he was a child, and Dalinar experienced a feeling he did not expect after his brother’s murder; he felt ridiculous.

 

“Alethkar is crumbling, Dalinar. It …” Navani interrupted herself, pressing her lips together. “No, I will not bother you with that. I am certain Sadeas has spoken enough of that already.”

 

She fell silent, eyeing him from top to toe, as if she could not truly believe the sight before her. Dalinar was suddenly acutely aware of how he must appear to her, how ragged and broken he must look, how long it had been since he last bathed or shaved. Navani herself looked tired in that special way grief tires people, but her hair was combed and styled in the way she always wore it, and her posture was as proud as ever.

 

“There’ll be a war, Dalinar”, she said suddenly, seeming surprised herself that she’d said the words out loud. “Pardon, I … storms, that was not why I came here.” She smiled at him then.

 

Smiled.

 

A strained smile, a tired smile, a heartbroken smile, a despairing smile.

 

But a smile all the same.

 

She _smiled_ at the man who let her husband die.

 

A lump in Dalinar’s throat.

 

“Dalinar.” He wished she’d stop saying her name like that.

 

Her voice went dangerously soft.

 

“Something terrible has happened, yes, the scholar in me won’t let me deny it, no matter how much I’d like to pretend otherwise. Do you think I don’t want to do what you’re doing?” Her voice began trembling. “Do you think I don’t want to lock myself in my chambers and cut myself off from the world?”

 

A single tear slid down her cheek - she wiped it away with her freehand.

 

“But I can’t, I won’t, I refuse to, because there are people who need me, Dalinar. There are causes that need me. And they need you too, the Almighty knows. So it is past time for you to stop blaming yourself. And honestly, you need to stop pitying yourself too.”

 

She’d always known what to say to get a reaction out of him.

 

So maybe he should have been as surprised as he was when he jerked his chin up and spoke to her, his voice hoarse after not being used for so long.

 

“What do you need me for?”

 

Navani did not attempt to hide the relief in those violet eyes of hers as she replied,

 

“It’s my son.”

 

* * *

 

Elhokar, it seemed, had had a similar reaction to Dalinar’s to his father’s passing. The boy - funny, how Dalinar still thought him a boy, even though he was grown and settled in marriage, and now had inherited his father’s crown - had locked himself up, refused to speak to anyone. He would not see his mother. He would not see his sister. He would not see his wife. He would not see Sadeas or any of the highprinces.

 

But once, he’d asked for Dalinar, and thus, here his uncle stood outside his door, unsure of what to do or expect.

 

Navani had left him, insisting he go tend to the young king alone.

 

And so Dalinar knocked on the door.

 

“Leave.” So Elhokar had not gone mute, then. Not like Dalinar had.

 

A good start.

 

“It’s your uncle.”

 

Silence.

 

“Let me in.”

 

One, two, three breaths. Then, just as Dalinar was losing hope - the click of the lock, and the door slid open.

 

Elhokar, on the other side of the threshold, looked like Dalinar felt - terrible, ragged, more beast than man. Gavilar had never let himself look so untamed, but still, those green eyes …

 

A Shardblade rammed through Dalinar’s heart.

 

The prince … no, the king looked so much like his father, from certain angles.

 

“May I come in?” Dalinar asked, the lump back in his throat.

 

Elhokar said nothing, but stepped to the side to let Dalinar enter the room.

 

* * *

 

“He’s gone”, was the first thing the king said.

 

It was almost a question, a statement that begged to be contradicted.

 

Dalinar said nothing.

 

“He’s gone, and I’ll never … he’s _never_ going to … I’ll never get to _show_ him that I … what I ...”

 

To his uncle’s heartbreak and horror, Elhokar, standing in the middle of the room, looking so lost, began weeping, almost against his own will, sobs shaking his shoulders.

 

Dalinar stood frozen.

 

Navani had not prepared him for this. “Tell him what I told you”, she’d instructed him. “If it comes from you, he’ll listen.”

 

She had not said what to do if Elhokar began crying uncontrollably.

 

And suddenly Dalinar took a step forward towards Elhokar, placing a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. The king only began crying more, and, acting on instinct, Dalinar pulled him closer, slowly, clumsily bringing him into an embrace.

 

Elhokar cried, violently, desperately into his shoulder. Dalinar held him, hugging him tightly, because it was all he could do - all the strength he could offer.

 

His nephew. He held Elhokar closer. Gavilar’s son. A boy. A king.

 

And when Dalinar finally let a tear roll down his cheek seven days after the assassination, he cried both for the boy in his arms and himself as well as Gavilar. Dalinar wept for the brother he’d lost, for the chaos to come, for the failure he’d been, for the guilt he would bear for the rest of his life.

 

And, as he held his crying nephew in his arms, Dalinar Kholin, the Blackthorn, highprince of Kholinar and uncle of the king, made a vow - to himself, to Navani, to Gavilar’s memory, to the Almighty himself, to keep this boy king safe.

This time, he would not waver. This time, he would protect his kin.

 

He had failed one time.

He would _not_ fail another.


End file.
